A Walk on the Line
by Kaitsurinu
Summary: [Winters Nixon] It's just too cold to stand, otherwise.


_A Walk on the Line_

* * *

Nixon's always hated the way snow crunches beneath his feet. It's another reason to hate Bastogne down to its rotten, frozen core as he stalks the line that night. Foxhole to snow-pressed foxhole he wanders, making sure to keep a willing gun near him as much as possible as he toes the line of no-man's land. Soldiers are sleeping, most are not. Some salute him, a few startle, and others are miles away in the glaze of their stares. The Christmas-white fog could be choking the sky all the way to Normandy, but Nixon can see only as far as luck will allow.

It's cold. He's got little to no alcohol in his system. It's _fucking_ cold. He wants to know who's idea it was to dig holes into the ground like demented rodents going to war. But more importantly, he wants to find Dick Winters.

The fog doesn't help. And his toes could be gone, for all he knows, as he finds himself stumbling along, tripping on the ice thickening in his veins.

Out of the white darkens a familiar black blanket, under which Nixon knows there must be a pale flash of red. His boots are leaden, making picking them up to move faster all the more painful and awkward. He nearly stumbles into Dick's foxhole trying to stop and slip inside. "Dick," he whispers loudly, the sound of frozen ground scraping along his back and equipment stuffed in pockets heralding his arrival.

Dick Winters is lying on his back, facing away from the line, in a pitiful excuse for a bed, army greens dusted to a chalky white by snow, face pale, stubbed, painted by war in various ways. He's got another blanket—perhaps the single sign of weakness he'll accept at all, in front of anyone. He probably hates looking weak even to himself. The tilted rim of his helmet shields his eyes. He doesn't even move when Nixon arrives, just groans.

"I was almost asleep, Nix," he says.

"You weren't. I'll put my damn jump wings on it," he mutters, crawling closer. He's careful to watch his helmet, cautious not to tear the blanket covering the foxhole and trapping what minimal heat it can inside, as if slowly baking a little redheaded cake. Agonizingly slow.

Dick shifts his head to look at Nixon, the glaring reflection of so little starlight catching the side of his face. Ugly stubble and dirt covers his face, chin to nose, and his eyelashes are clumped with dirt, but his eye is pristine gray-blue-green. There's something awfully familiar and welcoming in that alone, even though his face is far too stiff with cold to smile in welcome.

Nixon doesn't blame him. You'd have to be shitting gone to smile on a night like this, sleeping on rocks and death.

"Need something?" he asks, in a voice that's not yet battle ready.

"Shit, _were_ you asleep?" Nixon asks, shuffling closer. He can recognize that grumble like gravel in the bottom of his throat as the first note heard in the morning. Not that he's heard it much. Dick's always risen at a Christ-like hour. "That's not like you."

Dick chuckles weakly and grumbles, "I know." But his eye remains linked with Nixon's, the light hidden by his lowered lids, leaving only pure, star-lit color to stare into him. "What's going on?"

"Made a check."

"Men okay?"

"Yeah, Dick, the men are okay," he says. "And short of you giving them all your clothes and these nice blankets here—" He picks at a moth-eaten hole nearby. "—You can't do much for them. Doc's out, too. He'll take care of the rest."

"Good." Still, blue-green-gray, dusted with tired and weary, which is a little bit of brown. "What are you doing here, then?"

"It's too fucking _cold_," Nixon admits, and he realizes he's whining slightly—but _damn it_, you have to be so fucking gone to enjoy a night like this. You have to be suicidal to sleep on your own, as well. How the hell are you supposed to _not_ wake up a frozen stiff in the morning, otherwise?

Dick smiles tiredly, and finally looks away, letting his eyes fall shut. It's such an effortless motion that Nixon believes he's dropped asleep without acknowledging him at all, but before he can grumble a complaint and shake him awake again, he lifts the blanket. Nixon pulls off his helmet and clamors underneath it. He listens to Dick suck in a long breath and heave it back out a sleeping sigh as they settle into each other, Nixon's arm over his chest and Dick's chin coming to rest on top of his head. He pushes the ice-crusted tip of his nose into the warmest patch of Dick that he can find (his neck, his armpit), and tucks the blanket in tight around them. He's sure that this is closer than most of the men get, but it is the warmest, he'll bet Dick's jump wings on that.

It's just too cold to stand, otherwise.


End file.
